


Holmes Sanctuary

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Asexual Sherlock, Betrayal, Caretaker John, Caretaker Mycroft, Caretaker Sherlock, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, Falling In Love, Fear, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, POV First Person, Paranoia, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Slow Romance, Social Anxiety, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:37:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5791069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Remastered "What Must Be Protected"]</p>
<p>You flee from the inhuman cruelty of Moriarty and find sanctuary with Sherlock Holmes and his boyfriend, John Watson. Free from the torture, you descend into a state of inescapable anxiety. Can you - broken and lost - find a way to love yourself and trust the world again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holmes Sanctuary

Conciousness peels at my mind, dragging me slowly and cruelly back to reality. The first thing I'm aware of is the cold. It's no ordinary cold, the kind that nips at the skin. No, this is harsher. It's nestled deep in my bones, turning my blood to ice. No amount of shivering could shift it. Then I become aware of the aching in my muscles. A tense tightness that puts a vice to shame. The many bruises dotting my body throb dully with each twitch. There isn't a single inch that doesn't ache. I hear my breath, shuddering and unsteady. It's even more raw than it was yesterday. I shift, the heavy clanking of my chains echoing off the bare stone walls. I manage to lift my head. My neck cracks, sore from how it had been bent down as I had slept with my chin on my chest. My head meets the cold wall behind me and rests there. I sigh with brief relief. It's horribly short lived.  
Softly, he caresses my jawline with the back of his hand. Gentle fingers curl under my chin and angles it upwards.  
"Good morning, sleeping beauty." his eternally good humoured voice calls from somewhere beyond my closed eyelids. I hold them closed, wanting just a few more moments of peace. The calm before the storm. After a moment, he makes a frustrated sound in his throat and shifts on his feet.  
_Smack!_ My body screams white hot from the strike, my neck snapping round from the force. A pained gasp runs away from my throat and tears prickle my eyes.  
"I said _good morning_." his voice is darker now, he's unimpressed with my defiance. I raise my eyes slowly from the ground, coming to rest on his chest. I dare not look higher, lest I meet his eyes. Those cold, lifeless cesspools that lead into the abyss where his soul should be. I fear those eyes more than death. Death would be a mercy.  
"Good morning." a voice that sounds like mine, but isn't, replies.

I can imagine his lips curling upwards, face contorting into grotesque combination of a smirk and sneer. I have seen that look. I see it when I close my eyes. I see it in my sleep. I see it in my reflection. James Moriarty owns me. He owns my mind, my body and, worst of all, my soul. Every waking moment, every breath, is a reminder of this. He will control when I get to eat, sleep and breathe. Forever.  
He takes a step away to the left, then begins to pace back and forth with authoritive strides. I watch his legs as he does, wondering what he's thinking. No doubt he's inventing a game to play. A new way to make me suffer. I pray to a deaf God that it won't hurt. That it'll be over quickly and that I can rest. I count each step, usually he takes five round trips before making up his mind. Thats twenty five steps in total. Sometimes he gets excited and does a tiny skip, thats twenty three steps. Once, he leapt from one side of the room to the other, twenty one steps. Today he goes on to do thirty steps... And keeps going.  
I am so genuinely alarmed, that I dare to look at his face. His brow is furrowed, an out of place expression of frustration creasing his usually carefree features. He appears to have forgotten me, lost in a problem of his own. In my years of knowing him, I had never seen this. It is frightening beyond anything I have ever known. He has done all kinds of unspeakable, horrendous things to me, but none filled me with more blood chilling dread than this. Something was bothering him so much that it was distracting him from his favourite pass time. Frustration would turn to anger, and anger would be directed at me. My skin crawls as it anticipates his violence. Any second now, he will come back to the moment and rain hits down upon me. For just a few minutes he will forget about keeping me alive and will go beserk. I hope that he will finally go too far. That I will finally die.

His hits never come.  
Seventeen steps later, he turns to me and our eyes meet. For a few beats, we just stare at each other. His black, predatory eyes seem troubled, conflicted. For once, he looks human. As if he feels something other than sick satisfaction at watching the world burn. Some hopeful part of me begins to wonder if he'll let me in. If he'll open up and tell me all that troubles him, that he'll magically turn into a normal man and let me go. That we could actually love each other as I had hoped we would such a short time ago.  
Then that human part of him snaps away again. It disappears into the dark recesses of his mind, never to return. His lip curls, disgust crawling onto his features. He spits, thick glob of his saliva striking me on the face. I snap my head down, locking my eyes on the floor as it rolls down my cheek like a tear. He curses under his breath, but I hear it. I hear the words that will save me.  
"Sherlock Holmes... Baker street..."


End file.
